Forgiving You
by akisura12
Summary: Mycroft teaches Sherlock a lesson in forgiveness.  He takes this lesson to heart for the rest of his life.  Kid Sherlock and S/J, one-shot. *Previously "Forgive Me For My Sins
1. Chapter 1

Title: Forgive me for my Sins

Author: Akisura12

Summary: "The people you love don't mind if you get mad at each other sometimes, because in the end you both forgive each other and make up and it turns out all to be okay." Sherlock takes these words to heart throughout his life. John/Sherlock, starting out with kid Sherlock and Mycroft and turns more drabble-like afterwards.

Rating: K+; Nothing bad, though John/Sherlock pairing and a clinical death, if that bothers you.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Okay, so this is a one shot I've written. It starts out with an upset little Sherlock being comforted by Mycroft and ends with an upset John being comforted by proper-aged Sherlock. Please R&R, my first one shot so tell me if it's too long to be considered as such. I will probably break it down into 2 chapters if so. :) Enjoy!

~*Okay, update, this is becoming two chapters :)

**Part 1: Lesson**

Mycroft turned from his homework on his desk to the sound of his door opening. He saw Sherlock, his small 7-year-old brother, standing at the doorway. Blood ran down his knees and the side of his head, though the place where it was coming from was hard to tell, due to his long, curly dark hair. He looked like he might be crying and had dirt all over.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, alarmed. "What happened?"

Sherlock ran over to Mycroft and buried his head in his older brother's lap. Mycroft was unbothered by the dirt and blood that Sherlock was getting on him and rubbed his seven-years younger brother's back gingerly as the boy started to cry.

"Shh, it's alright," he said gently. "Now what's the matter?"

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, his breath still hitching and visible tears running from his eyes. Sherlock rarely cried, so Mycroft knew that either he'd hurt himself very badly, or he was upset about something. "I - I was running away and Frank an' the other boys were calling me names, and I tripped and fell and hit my h - head," he cried, taking shuttering breath after another.

Mycroft felt anger build up inside of him as he heard of his brother's teasing. Sherlock was made fun of often for his particular ways. Mycroft knew well how it felt, too, but it had never been as bad for him. He was better with people. He could talk to them without them wishing he's die. However it usually didn't bother Sherlock at all. In fact, he seemed perfectly content with the fact that he had no friends and spent all his time alone or with Mycroft or Mummy.

"What did they call you?" Mycroft asked worriedly.

"J - Just what they usually say," Sherlock whimpered. "A stupid and a prat and things..."

So it wasn't different than usual, Mycroft noted. Then it must have been his brother had hurt himself badly. "Does your head hurt very much, Sherlock?" He asked.

"N - No, it just won't stop bleeding." Alright. So he didn't have a concussion. And his words weren't stranger than usual or slurred or worse either. Sherlock hid pain well, Mycroft knew, but he seemed to be telling the truth now. So then what was bothering him?

"Alright, I think I understand," Mycroft said gently. Except for the crying part. Usually Sherlock went to Mummy for these sorts of things, and to get cleaned up when he fell, but Mycroft knew that Sherlock did not cry for these sorts of things. He'd figure out why though. "How about we get you cleaned up?"

Sherlock nodded, and by now he'd managed to completely stop crying. "Okay," he said his voice rather pathetic.

Together they walked to the bathroom, where Mycroft helped Sherlock undress and get in the bath. Ten minutes later, Mycroft had seen that while Sherlock head had bled a bit more than to be dismissed, the cut was quite small. Probably no need for stitches. Head wounds just bled a lot. There was still some gravel stuck in Sherlock's knees though, and there was some whining and pain when they got those out.

When they were done cleaning things up, Mycroft gave Sherlock a clean t-shirt and shorts to wear and carefully dried off his fluffy hair with a towel. He was careful not to make his cuts reopen. They dressed then with Band-Aids and gauze and went back to Mycroft's room.

That was where Sherlock and Mycroft could be found of they were inside together; In Mycroft's room. Mycroft would sit at his desk and Sherlock would sit on the bed. However today, Mycroft sat on the bed too. Sherlock wasn't crying, but he still looked upset about something.

"So Sherlock," he started. "What's bothering you now?"

Sherlock looked annoyed and slightly nervous at that question, but replied, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

Mycroft snorted, though not unkindly. "Uh-huh. Come one, Sherlock, I know something's wrong and so do you. What's on your mind?" Sherlock didn't respond, just looked down at his lap and hands twitching nervously. Mycroft then wondered why Sherlock hadn't gone to Mummy yet.

Sherlock loved Mummy. He didn't keep secrets from her. He should have told her by now. Normally it would have seemed like Sherlock had just decided to come to someone else for a change, but he had cried. And it seemed like it had nothing to do with the dirt and blood or the teasing or even the cuts. Mycroft couldn't think of one instance when Sherlock had come crying to him when Mummy was perfectly available. Unless...Wasn't she?

"Sherlock, where's Mummy?" Mycroft asked, trying to keep his voice as level as possible, as to not alarm Sherlock, who visibly flinched at this statement. Now they were getting somewhere.

"...With Dad," he said shakily.

Mycroft nodded, but still didn't understand. "Is Mummy mad at you?" He asked. Sherlock's glare told him no, she was not. "Then why didn't you go to her?"

Sherlock looked like he was about to start crying again. "She - Dad and her were fighting. And not in a fun way. Like they were yelling really hard and Dad broke his teacup." At this a big tear did escape his eye, and Sherlock quickly moved his arm to cover it. "M - Mycroft, what if Mummy and Dad don't l - like each other anymore?"

Mycroft sighed and gathered his much smaller little brother in his arms, tenderly stroking his hair back as the boy started full-out crying again. "Sherlock, Mummy's just really stressed right now, with her new job and all. And Dad's sick remember? He always gets especially grumpy when he's sick."

"I - I know, but what if they don't make up? Then what happens?" Sherlock sobbed.

"Oh Sherlock, Mummy and Dad will be fine," Mycroft soothed. "They're both very reasonable people. They're smart enough not to stop loving each other just because they're both a little grumpy today." Which was true. "Remember how sometimes I get mad at you and you throw things? But we still like each other."

This seemed to reassure Sherlock, and he relaxed a little in Mycroft's arms. "Okay..." he said weakly, tired out from crying twice in one day.

"How about later today we go downstairs and tell Mummy and Dad about it okay? I'm sure they'll say the exact same thing." Mycroft got no answer for almost a minute, and he wondered if Sherlock had fallen asleep.

"Alright," Sherlock's muffled voice finally said. "But you have to come with me."

Mycroft smiled gently. "Of course I will Sherlock," he said. "Don't worry about a thing."

The two sat with Sherlock leaning again Mycroft and being held by his arms for a while before Sherlock small form began to sag and Mycroft saw that he really was sleeping this time. He laid him down with his head now on Mycroft's pillows and drew the blinds. He didn't bother attempting to get his brother under the covers and just covered him with a blanket from the end of his bed. He reached and grabbed a book from the nearby shelf and began to read.

Two hours later, Sherlock would wake up and they would both go together to tell Mummy and Dad that Sherlock had heard them fighting and what he felt about it. They would reassure him and Mummy cried and hugged and kissed him and then hugged and kissed their father (even though he was sick). They told Sherlock that the people you love don't mind if you get mad at each other sometimes, because in the end you both forgive each other and make up and it turns out all to be okay.

Around twenty-five years later, Sherlock met inspector Lestrade and thought of these exact words of advice.

A/N: Enjoy it? Reviews are much loved! Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Major spoilers you guys :D

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Chapter two of the alleged one-shot^^'. Sorry. R&R!

**Part Two: Learning**

Around twenty-five years later, Sherlock met inspector Lestrade. He fought with him almost every day. Especially when Lestrade took away his drugs and made him stop drinking and smoking all the time. But in the end they always made up, and Lestrade would forgive Sherlock for screaming and beating at him and Sherlock would forgive Lestrade for putting him through the torture of withdrawal, because it was for the better.

Once Sherlock thought of what his Mum and Dad had told him. About the people you really love, you'll always forgive. For a while, he thought maybe he might love Lestrade because of it. Lestrade was kind to him and listened. He was different than everybody else. By now he was no longer on (civilized) speaking terms with Mycroft and his parents were both dead. Lestrade was the only person he talked to really. The person he fought with and forgave daily.

However he soon realized that while he did love Lestrade, it wasn't in that way. He lived with the man for a while, and they ate and chatted and even joked with each other, but there wasn't any romantic attachment. There was only friendship. So Sherlock moved on, got his own flat with the courtesy of the kind Mrs. Hudson and with the help of a man named John Watson.

John was an ordinary man. He wasn't exceptionally intelligent or fascinating or overwhelmingly talented. He had an average job and a boring life. He should have been just like everyone else. But he wasn't. John got along with Sherlock, and Sherlock began to like John. Very much so.

Sherlock argued with John on a regular basis, even more than he had with Lestrade. About who got the milk and shooting the wall and Sherlock's laziness or sometimes even heartlessness. But they made up. Every time. Just like with Lestrade. And once again, Sherlock thought of his parents' words to him so long ago.

For a while, he told himself that he didn't have the time for things like love and relationships and feelings. Feelings were boring, like breathing. Breathing was boring. Until the day that he couldn't do it anymore. The day that Moriarity got John. Sherlock couldn't breathe then. And when he drowned, he couldn't even try to. Until John pumped the water out of him and pushed he air into him and made him feel alive again. Then he could breathe again and it wasn't boring.

It was after that that Sherlock began to acknowledge what he felt for John. It wasn't brotherly love, like Lestrade, or parental, or like a pet, as Sally Donavan thought. It was more than that. Or he at least wished it was.

Angelo called John Sherlock's date every time they ate there, which was several times. And each time John protested with a loud "I'm not his date!" But Sherlock had begun to imagine he was. But there was the fact that John was with Sarah, and he was a man, and quite a few years older than him. And that he was ordinary. But somehow exceptional nonetheless.

Sherlock wanted John to know what he was thinking and he didn't. He wanted John to love him and he wanted to never see John again. For the first time in ages, Sherlock was confused. And John, of all people, noticed.

They were sitting at their flat, John reading the newspaper in his chair and Sherlock just staring into space on his couch. He had not moved in three days.

"How about this case, Sherlock?" John asked. He began to read the article before Sherlock interrupted him.

"I'm not interested John, so please, save your breath." John looked offended and stood. Sherlock knew he was angry by the way he threw the paper down and his eyes and face grew darker.

"You're not interested in anything! If you hadn't moved from that God-damned couch for three days I'd swear you were on drugs again. Why aren't you taking cases? They're what you'd normally jump into! What's the matter?" John demanded angrily. And just like John's anger had snapped, something inside Sherlock snapped to.

He flung his legs over the couch and stood, face to face with John, so close that if they'd been any closer, their noses would have been touching. "I happen to like this God-damned couch and I'm not on drugs again. I'm not taking cases because I'm thinking about something. And I usually would, yes, but I have more important things to think about. And the matter is -" Sherlock stopped, his voice getting louder and louder until he paused.

"What?" Sneered John. "What could possibly be so important that you can't do anything but think about it for three days?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before, "It's you John. I am thinking about you."

John recoiled, a surprised look on his face. "Me? Why?" His face returned angry. "Did I so something again? Because I seem to do that sometimes. Anger you for no reason. Oh wait - it's all in your head!" Sherlock looked so hurt that John immediately felt bad. "Oh wait, I'm sorry, I..."

"I love you." Sherlock said. There. He'd said it. And it made him strangely happy.

John froze. "Wait, you...What? Come again?"

Sherlock started to smile. "I love you John." It came easier this time. "I love you."

Part Three: Teaching

John was frozen. He'd gone to Afghanistan to run away from everything, but he'd only come back with more; He was even colder than before. Until he met Sherlock. The man was like fire to a match buried deep inside John. He melted the ice.

Sarah was no longer attractive to John. They kept in touch, and they were, in fact, very good friends. She'd taken the news that he was breaking up with her to be with Sherlock well, as if she'd expected it. But he did not love her or want her anymore. He only wanted Sherlock.

Harry did not matter either. She had been a burden. She had weighed John down and kept him from being happy. But he came to terms with the fact that there was nothing more he could do about it. She had checked herself into rehab once more. But this time it wasn't forced. She was doing it for John. Because she wanted him to be happy and not worry about her any longer. And he was. He really was.

Mycroft did not kidnap John weekly. He didn't have to. John came to him. Sherlock had told John he loved him, and that was all John needed to fall in love with Sherlock. He came to Mycroft to know things about Sherlock that Sherlock wouldn't say about, like his birthday and what they did for Christmas and how old he was.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were not surprised when they saw John and Sherlock holding hands for the first time. The seemed like they'd been waiting for this a long time (In fact, there might have been some notes exchanged between the two). They smiled and said how glad they were that the two were (finally) together. They accepted everything. Almost.

There was one thing nobody could accept when the heard it. That Sherlock was dead. He suddenly keeled over from a heart attack and died. Clinically. John had brought him back to life. CPR and words of encouragement. And threats. Many threats.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you don't wake up I will kill you myself! Don't you dare die on me! Do you hear me? You cannot die! Come back right this instant! You can not leave me yet!" John screamed these words over and over again as his attempted to bring Sherlock back to life. The ambulance came and they took over. They shocked him and got his heart beating again. Very slowly.

John sat in the waiting room for what seemed like hours before Sherlock came out of surgery. Finally he was informed that while he'd be monitored in the hospital for a while, Sherlock seemed as if he was going to be fine. And John cried and demanded to see him as soon as possible.

When Sherlock woke up, John yelled at him. For dying and for leaving him alone. For getting a heart attack for no apparent reason in the first place. For leaving John pleading with himself and God for hours, begging Sherlock not to die again, for him not to be alone again, for Sherlock's heart's aorta not to tear before the surgeons got in there to fix it.

But John forgave him. And Sherlock forgave John for yelling at him. A few weeks later they went home to their flat. When they were in bed (together) and ready to sleep, John held Sherlock's hand. To make sure he couldn't leave again. And to make sure he still had a pulse. Because if Sherlock died, John would die too.

"Forgive and forget doesn't really exist," Sherlock said before they both fell asleep. "You can never forget. But you can forgive."

John had chuckled. "I know that Sherlock," he said smiling. Sherlock was nearly sleeping when John said, "Good night Sherlock."

A smile curled on Sherlock's lips. "Goodnight John. And...Thank you."

"For what?"

"Forgiving me."

"Always, Sherlock."

End.

A/N: So, did you like it? Please tell me if you did, I love your feedback. Sorry if it became sort of mushy at the end, and the fact that part one was probably three times as long as part three. However I wasn't really planning part two and three until I wrote them, so forgive me for the way they're written very different from the beginning. Hope you enjoyed and thanks so much for reading!^^ I may make a sequel, if anybody's interested...?


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